


Rock Bottom

by AntiMaterielGirl



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-04 03:34:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5318891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AntiMaterielGirl/pseuds/AntiMaterielGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's empty and miserable, slowly circling the drain, but Charon helps her cope as best he can.<br/>Rated Explicit, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rock Bottom

She lives in a haze of alcohol and chems. Grief overwhelms her; leads her to seek relief wherever she can find it.

She uses me when she wants. I let her. I can say no – she’s only entitled to my services in combat – but I don’t. I’m weak. It feels too good. It’s been so long since I had a woman that I didn’t put up much of a fight the first time. That set a precedent. She clings to me – she needs me.

She’s desperate. I do what I can. A temporary fix.

I’m sure that the novelty of having a smoothskin in my bed will eventually wear off, but it won’t be anytime soon. I hope that I can turn it around, help her find happiness, but I can’t see how.

The hole in her soul is gaping.

She says that alcohol is a liquid. That liquids conform to the container they’re placed in. That maybe, if she drinks enough, she’ll fill the void in her soul. These words make my heart ache for her. The void…the void that the Vault left in her. The void that her dad left when he died. The void that I, initially, attempted valiantly to fill, but failed. Maybe there’s still a chance. Maybe…

Every morning, I clean up the bottles, the broken glasses, the mess, even though I’m not ordered to do it. I’m used to holding her hair back when she’s sick. Taking care of her every morning. Bringing her a drink when she has the inevitable hangover. Rubbing her back. Holding her when she cries – when she lets me, anyway.

Bringing her home from the bar doesn’t insure that she won’t keep drinking after I go to bed. I’ve learned not to wait up with her. I’ll see things she doesn’t want me to see; hear things she doesn't want me to hear. Crying, muttering. Sometimes, I can hear her through the door, but I know better than to go down and try to comfort her. She’ll turn her anger on me, yell at me. She’ll do anything to blame someone else for what happened to her, even though there’s no one to blame. It’s luck of the draw, life dealt her a bad hand, et cetera. All the platitudes I’ve used haven’t amounted to shit, so I don’t bother any more.

The only time I can really comfort her is when she crawls in my bed, most times stinking of booze, tears on her cheeks, begging me to make her feel good. To help her forget.

She sleeps in my bed most nights.

She’s told me things that she’s never told another living soul. She knows I won’t tell. No one’s seen her like I’ve seen her. When she gets sick, I change her clothes, wash her hair. Dry her tears. I think that if there’s something I could do, I’d do it. I’d give my life to make her whole again. I hate to admit it, but despite all her problems, I do love her. I see her circling the drain, rushing headlong to destruction, and I can’t stop her.

I even talked to the Doctor about her. Church, I think his name is. He says that if she doesn’t want to get better, then there’s nothing that he can do. She’ll just go right back to the bottle, to the Med-X, to whatever the hell else she does when I’m not looking. He’s an asshole, but he’s right.

I’m terrified that she’ll fall down the stairs one night; break her neck. Then who knows who I’ll be bound to.

It’s just one night, in a blur of them. I’ve started to drink too, sometimes. I rarely get drunk – it takes an enormous amount of liquor to intoxicate a ghoul – plus, I’m pretty big, so it takes more. We don’t have enough money saved up to keep me in alcohol for long, so I nurse a drink while she gulps them. At least I can keep an eye on her. The last thing I want is for Jericho to get his filthy mitts on her when I’m not around. Gob managed to stop the last one; who knows what trouble she might wind up in next.

I carry her home, and she asks to be put in my bed. She’s told me that she likes my bed, likes my smell, likes me to put an arm around her, keep her warm when she sleeps. She says that I make her feel safe. Sometimes, she’ll ask me to use her. To bend her over something, to take her. Initially, I’ll refuse, then she’ll beg, cry. Even from behind, she’s beautiful.

When I wake, she’s rubbing my cheek. It’s early morning; the sun hasn’t risen yet. It’s dark, and her smooth hand on my face feels so good. She’s almost sober – the early morning is my favorite time of day, because it’s when she’s most coherent. She kisses me. Her mouth tastes like whiskey and cigarettes. She moans. She pleads for me to take her; to make her feel alive, if just for a little while.

I peel her shirt off of her; leave a trail of kisses down from her ear, along her collarbone. I take her nipple in my mouth and suck gently, flick it with my tongue. I knead her other breast, pinch her nipple and roll it lazily between my thumb and forefinger. She’s breathing heavily, eyes closed, mouth parted. I slide my hand down the length of her smooth, supple body and explore between her legs. She’s warm, wet, and soft. “Please...” she invites me in.

When I part her velvety folds and plunge my swollen length into her, I tell her she’s beautiful, that I love her. I close my eyes and listen to her moan. She says my name. She wraps her strong legs around me, holds onto me for dear life; she clings to me as if she’d float away if I didn’t ground her. I’m all she has left.

I don’t know if she remembers what I say. It doesn’t seem to make a difference, but I keep saying it anyway. If it makes her feel a little bit less cold and empty, then I’ve done something.

Afterward, we’re laying side by side, my large hand rubbing her stomach gently. She jumps and gasps. “Take me to Church. Before I change my mind. Hurry.”

I scoop her up, and take her to the clinic. He tells me to leave her, to come back in a few hours, but I sit outside. Without my employer, I have no direction, no purpose.  “Get her things ready. She’s leaving Megaton.” He commands, brusquely. I don’t ask why, I just do.

When she comes out, she’s weak, but she’s sober. She smiles at me wanly, squeezes my hand. I give her a pack – lighter than usual – and I help her put it on after I shoulder mine.  She sighs, then rests a soft hand on my arm, rubs it. “Let’s go, Charon.”  She smiles, meets my eyes. “I don't want to die anymore. I want to live.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm quite aware that this one probably won't be popular - in fact, it was unpleasant to write.  
> But I guess that's what happens when stories live in our heads.   
> It fought its way out.


End file.
